


Stronger

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:13:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year you turn twenty, your father dies following a fight with a poltergeist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stronger

**STRONGER**  
SUPERNATURAL  
Sam/Dean  
 **WARNINGS** : AU; possible non-consenual sex; abuse; character death

  
The year you turn twenty, your father dies following a fight with a poltergeist. Sammy screaming behind you, the fire and ash that rise, the heat that licks at your skin, the smell of rot and earth and decomposition, putrefaction, decay, the ghost that smiles and shimmers and fades away, your father with his head in your lap, the blood fanning around him like a halo, and it would be real goddamn funny if it weren’t so sad. You don’t cry for two months, don’t think about him, don’t move or eat or talk, and Sammy goes through denial, but stays shock still on anger, walks in to a room only to throw something against the wall, pictures of him fluttering around in tiny pieces, jagged edges that catch and burn on his old lighter. Glass litters the floor, broken vials of holy water that mix with the salt and dirt and ash of your house, everything shattered and discarded and useless, everything beyond repair.

Sammy goes through denial, but never passes anger, slams doors and windows and runs out in to the night to get drunk or drive as far away as he can or both, the Impala’s door squealing with his strength, the music that he never liked cranked up to its full volume. Sam steals all the liquor he can from your father’s stash, drinks through it in two, maybe three, days, buys more with stolen credit cards and the money you’ve made hustling pool. Never stays in one place too long, constantly moving through the house, his boots crunching on the broken glass, constantly walking out in to the sunshine and the cornfield, driving off to town on back roads that curve dangerously, the heady smell of alcohol that follows in his wake.

When people ask, you tell them that your father took a wrong turn coming home one night, got hit by a van doing ninety. When people ask, you tell them that he stayed pinned to that steering wheel for six hours, and he felt fucking everything.

Bobby comes down as soon as he hears, wants to take you out of here, wants to get you out of Arkansas where your father has left you stranded, maybe take you back up to the salvage yard in South Dakota, maybe Ellen’s place, but Sam isn’t budging and you don’t go anywhere without him. Bobby stays four days before Sammy kicks him out, raises hell and tells him never to come back, even if they need him, even if he needs you, and it’s that feeling of all those years ago when your father stood there and said those same exact words. Sammy and his angry temper tantrums, you’re surprised Bobby hasn’t threatened him full of buckshot just like he did with your father, hasn’t let at least one punch slip, but he just steps back and quietly leaves, one last glance to you like he wishes things were different, like he can’t believe this is happening. Truthfully, Sammy and his drunken mouth, you’re surprised Bobby lasted four days in the first place.

When people ask, you tell them that your father was a fucking drunk, and he deserved everything he had coming to him.

As summer moves in to fall, the longer you stay in Arkansas, the colder it becomes, the more money you run out of, the angrier Sam gets. You aren’t taking jobs, you aren’t getting out of the house, and all the food you’ve stored is gone, most of it smashed on the kitchen floor, walls full of sweet potatoes and corn and peas, ruined aluminum cans splayed on the linoleum. You’re not a soldier anymore, you’re not a hero, and your father would never be proud of you.

As summer moves in to fall, it gets easier to annoy Sam. You start with hiding the alcohol, those little hotel room bottles of vodka, the silver flasks full of whiskey, you start putting them underneath your pillow before you go to bed, just so he grabs fistfuls of your shirt during the night, lifts you up and shoves you aside, just so he has to touch you to get to what he wants. Sam and his newfound addictions, at least now you can reap the benefits. At least now, you have a way of getting what you want without asking for it, without begging, without giving in. You start with hiding the liquor, cheap store bought shit that tastes bland on your tongue, that tastes like regrets, start with that and move on to cutting the cable line to the TV and throwing his clothes out in to the rain, leaving muddy footprints on the carpet. You start with that and end with hitting him, once, only once, shaping your hand in to a fist and aiming right for his eye.

And, really, what’s funny is, it took him this long to start hitting you back.

When people ask, you tell them that your father ended up on the wrong side of karma, a few too many cocky thoughts, a few too many reassurances. You tell them that your father thought he was immortal and, boy, did God have something to say about that.

Sam hits you once, twice, three times and you’re flat on your back, the blood that tastes sweet in your mouth, the lip you can just feel starting to swell, and, really, what’s funny is, you taught him how to hit like that. The bruises on your chest, the bruises you hide beneath grimy t-shirts, beneath long sleeves in the cool breeze of October, the way you smile with all your teeth at the women that stare in town, your brother the drunk, you say. God bless the Winchesters. God bless family. You brother, well, he takes just after your father, and, boy, if you weren’t loving every single minute of it.

Bobby sends you text messages, little inquiries about you, about Sam, too many questions for you to answer without lying, without breaking Sam’s trust, and you hit the delete button every time. It’s not like you’re asking for help, anyway. You don’t cry, don’t think or move or eat, and Sammy touches you in the way you’ve always wanted, the way you’ve always hoped for.

Sam hits you once, hits you once and then again and again, and doesn’t even flinch when you turn around to unzip his jeans and pull them down, kissing the inside of his thigh. Doesn’t flinch, but lets his head tilt back, hiding the tears in his eyes, pulling at your hair hard enough to hurt. Your mouth, bruised and bloodied and yearning for the taste of skin, even if Sammy’s moans are hidden beneath his sobs. And he doesn’t even flinch as he flips you over on your stomach, pushing your head so hard into the carpet you almost choke, as his tears fall hot on your naked skin.

When people ask, you tell them that your father’s buried out beyond your little farmhouse, underneath the cornfields, even though he asked to be burned, even though he never wanted to come back again. When people ask, you tell them that you pray every day for his ghost to show up on your front porch, if only so he could see just how his sons turned out.

Sammy goes through denial, but never breaks free from anger, taking his aggressions out on you, pounding your flesh with his fists, letting you lick the blood from his fingers, letting you kiss his swollen, whiskey-stained mouth, even as he gasps, even as he cries out, his bloodshot eyes from crying so hard. You make him do it on that shitty makeshift grave, the grave your father’s buried in, on that dirt, out behind your house, out in that cornfield, you make him hit you again and again and again, and you make him love you until your hair is soaked from his tears. You make him cry your name, your hands outstretched, grasping at dirt and grass and corn husks, you and Sam’s perfect outline on top of your fathers, and you make him say that this is what he’s always wanted, what he’s always been too afraid to ask for. You make him pretend as he grinds you into the dirt, into your father’s corpse.

You make him lie.

Sam’s body on top of yours, his mouth on the back of your neck, gasping, crying, your hands clutching the dirt beneath you, this is what you’ll remember of Arkansas, this is what you’ll remember of your father. After fall turns to winter, after Sammy moves on to bargaining, to depression and then to acceptance, after Sammy gets rid of his anger, gets rid of the alcohol, well, this is what you’ll remember when you start hunting again, when Sam can’t touch you anymore, when Bobby looks at you like he thinks he knows. This is what you’ll remember when people ask, these polite little Southerners with their Sunday morning masses and closed minds, asking about you and Sammy and your little family, asking how your father died, this is exactly why you’ll start to cry.


End file.
